


Built Better

by Nope



Category: Alien: Resurrection (1997)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-31
Updated: 2009-01-31
Packaged: 2018-10-31 19:23:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10905843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nope/pseuds/Nope
Summary: They're not human.





	Built Better

"You're a machine," Ripley says.

"I'm as human as you are," Call spits.

They're in a foxhole on an alien infested Earth, it's night, and the fires are burning. They scrub the blood off with dry dirt. It's better than nothing.

Ripley cocks her head. Like a dog. Like one of them.

"Annalee," she singsongs, a playground call.

They go in cycles, back and forth over the line. Picking at the scars. They are strangers here, even to each other.

"You can call me Newt if you want," Call says and then she's on the ground, jaw aching. She laughs. It's full of broken glass. "There you are."

"There I am," Ripley agrees, evenly.

They both have a mean streak when they want.

Ripley strips, a smooth economy of motion. Whipcord thin. Shiny acid burn scars. She is nude, not naked. Renaissance sculpture. When Ripley lets go of her top, it slides down through the air, slow, almost liquid.

"Fine," Call says, pulling her own top off; mutters, "Fucking fine."

She's artificial. Ceramic teeth. Tongue a million fibers, contracted by minute electric charges. Skin vat-grown from cultures, pierced through with tiny, almost invisible toyokalon fibres to mimic human hair. When Ripley touches her, an autonomic static field is triggered, making them stand on end. She keeps trying to alter the program, but it never sticks.

"I had a daughter," Ripley says once. "I fell asleep; she died of old age. I had a daughter; she drowned. I had friends; they died screaming in the dark."

Ripley's fingernails are dark, chitinous. Scars cross Call's belly under Ripley's hand. Once she gaped wide, oozing the milk of life. Call's heart beats faster. It is her heart, for all that she isn't human, this fluid pump, driven by an electronic sparking timer. It is her heart, and it beats fast, so fast, like a hummingbird in her ears.

"Can you hear it?" Call asks.

Ripley positions her like a doll, doesn't answer, leans close. The tips of her hair brush Call's breasts, whisper down. She turns her head, presses an ear to Call's chest.

"Do you dream?" Ripley asks, warm breath against skin. Neural processors skip. Sensation is stored haphazardly. A touch here. A touch there. "Do you dream," Ripley asks, lifting her head to look, "of monsters?"

"I dream of you," Call admits.

Ripley's smile is full of sharp edges. Her grip is a little too strong, a little too precise. She tastes like batteries. Her tongue ("make a good souvenir") stabs into Call's mouth. Call lifts her arms and Ripley pushes them back down again. She pushes a leg between Call's, rocks a little. Physical response is pre-programmed. Tissues become saturated, expand. Lubrication is excreted. It's all clinical. Mechanical. Call bites her lip, refuses to pant. Her skin flushes. Ripley holds her down one handed, dips the other between her thighs, fingers just close enough to flesh to feel and no further.

It's just the two of them now. And the aliens. Maybe it always was.

"Please," Call says, not knowing what she's asking for, asking all the same.

"Anatomically correct," Ripley says. Her fingers trail against Call's lips, and again, again, harder each time. "What does that tell you about people? About why we were made?"

A dark nail circles Call's clit reducing her reply to a tight moan. Her hips come up by themselves. Ripley pushes them down, pushes her down, until they're pressed together. Ripley is dry heat. Call is wet, pushing against the invading fingers.

"I can make it stop," Ripley says.

"Fuck you." Call forces her eyes closed, feels Ripley chuckle against her neck.

Maybe it's love. Maybe her neural pathways are damaged. Maybe it's all just autonomic, programmed by genetics and mechanics -- no. She doesn't believe that. She doesn't. They are more than they are. Manufactured into roles they refused, they are self-made; renewed; resurrected, even.

"Don't you want to see what happens next?" Ripley asks.

"Fuck. You." Call forces out.

Ripley does, over and over, until Call is screaming and begging and coming against those relentless fingers.

Afterward, long after, when she can breath again and her heart is quiet and Ripley's blanket is wrapped around them, she says, "you're a monster," against Ripley's shoulder.

"Haven't you heard?" Ripley's smile is full of teeth. "I'm as human as you are."


End file.
